


More Than Any Heart Can Take

by honeyyoongi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Romance, based on a book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8399407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyoongi/pseuds/honeyyoongi
Summary: Twenty-six letters, two boys, and one epic love story. Title comes from the song "Unbroken" by Birdy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The concept and some of the words were based on the novel "The Lover's Dictionary" by David Levithan. There's a different one-shot type thing for every word that tell a bigger story. I hope you enjoy and please don't hesitate to comment any criticisms or advice you may have! Happy reading!

**A is for…**

**attraction** , _n_ **.**

“Name one thing you love about me.”

“That’s not possible, Harry.”

“Oh, come on, Lou! Your favourite thing, then. Tell me your favourite thing about me that you love.”

 _Your eyes._  
_Your smile._  
_Your laugh._  
_Your voice._  
_Your freckles._  
_Your ability to know everything about anything without being rude about it._  
_Your ability to make me feel loved and important._  
_Your ability to make any song sound like a hit, no matter how stupid._  
_Your lips when you’re kissing me._  
_Your lips when you’re not kissing me._  
You, you, you.

 ***

 **autonomy** ,  _n_ ** _._ **

When Louis opens the door to his apartment and sees Harry sitting on the couch, he cannot help but kiss him. Has it been awhile since they’ve seen each other? He can’t remember. It doesn’t really matter. Louis just sits beside him on the couch, and Harry shifts so he can prop his feet up onto Harry’s lap. Louis asks how his day off was. _Good_ , Harry says like he does every other day. Harry asks how Louis’ day off was, and he says, _Good_ , just like every other day. They look at one another and smile.

This is the rhythm they have made for themselves, the one they manage to slip into every night when they close the front door. They forget about their fans and their bosses, their neighbours and families, about the laws preventing them from being together, and the whole world surrounding them. Right now it’s just the two of them with the freedom to do whatever they want.

They begin to talk about random things, starting with discussing the show that they’re watching, then talking about strange dreams they’ve had recently. Harry’s arm rests on Louis’ shin, and Louis’ fingertips play with the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. They don’t flinch or shift uncomfortably at each other’s touch. They know each other like the back of their own hands. They know what makes the other tick.

The boys live for these moments alone in each other’s company. They don’t have to worry about waking up early for fans, or for the phone to start ringing about television appearances. For once in a very long time, the boys are completely at ease. They aren’t worrying that they’ll be caught, because they won’t be. They aren’t worrying about upsetting anyone, because there isn’t anyone to upset. They are in their own world and they make their own rules.

 ***

 **avalanche** , _n._

After it happened the first time, Louis swore it wouldn’t happen again. And Harry believed him. But it did happen again and again, and every time it just kept getting worse.

“It’s for work,” Louis would say, and he would feel terrible about saying it because Harry was so important to him. 

The first few times Harry fought back with, “Yeah, but doesn’t she understand that she isn’t your _actual girlfriend_ ? She can’t spend _all_ her time with you, Lou.” But soon he didn’t even bother trying, and would just sigh and mumble, “I know. I know that it’s for work and that she’s helping us all. I’ve heard it all before.”    

Harry trusted Louis, and it wasn’t like Louis was doing anything infidel, but it was the repeated broken promises and the nights that Harry spent alone because Louis was at an event with her that sometimes made him wish Louis _was_ cheating on him. Because once the cheating has been done, that’s it, that’s all, but with breaking promises it can only get worse from there.

*** 

 **avoidance** _, n._

After the first time it happened, Harry wouldn’t return any of Louis’ calls. He wanted to, but he didn’t know what to say.

“You’re being immature,” Liam had told him.

“Am not,” Harry snapped back.

“Then go talk to him,” Niall ordered.

Harry just sighed, shook his head, and thought, _If only you guys knew._

 

* * *

**B is for…**

**ballad** , _n._ _  
_

It’s a rainy afternoon, the kind where you want to cuddle and trace patterns onto each other’s skin and just feel the presence of the other person beside you. Louis and Harry lay in each other’s arms, their blankets and bed sheets in a crumpled pile around them. Harry’s head rests on Louis’ sticky sweet chest, his eyelids fluttering to stay open while Louis strokes his sweat dampened hair.

Harry listens to the hollow beating of Louis’ heart, counting every beat and every breath. It’s a slow and steady rhythm, and the rain thrumming steadily against the windowpane only adds to the lullaby.

“You tired?” Louis asks softly.

Harry nods his head against Louis’ chest. “A little,” he replies sleepily, and snuggles closer.

“You can sleep if you want,” Louis tells him.

Harry shakes his head. “No, I’m okay. I just want to lay here for a bit.”

To be honest, the only thing Harry wants to do right now is sleep, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep before Louis does. He wants them to fall asleep together. To keep himself awake, Harry begins to hum a song. He traces a fingertip across Louis’ tattoos, his eyes following his hand. Louis can feel Harry’s eyelashes against his torso as he blinks, and it tickles.

“What song are you humming?” Louis asks quietly, his finger trailing up and down the dip between Harry’s shoulder blades.

“I don’t know.” Harry chuckles.

“Well, it’s making me sleepy,” Louis yawns. “Sing me a lullaby, Harry.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, and he thinks he hears Louis mutter a sleepy _mhmm_ , but he isn’t certain. Louis doesn’t say anything for a few minutes more, just breathes slowly into the afternoon, and Harry realizes that he’s waiting.

“Is there any song in particular?” he asks.

“No,” Louis replies softly. “I just want you to sing for me.”

And so Harry does.

He hums a little tune and listens to Louis breathe, listens to the sounds of his lungs as they fill with air. He listens to the sound of his heart beating in his chest. He listens to the sound of his muscles and organs working together to keep him alive.

It continues like this throughout the afternoon; Harry sings, and sometimes the notes change, but the words all mean the same thing. And he’s happy for this little moment of togetherness he’s sharing with Louis. They both watch the Sun dip and bob in that ocean of rain clouds, and just as it nears a pool of orangey-pink light, both boys slip into a state of unconsciousness.

 ***

 **beard** , _n._

“Oh, come on, Lou! Your favourite thing, then. Tell me your favourite thing about me that you love.”

"I love everything about you, Harry. I don't have a favourite thing."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, mister sappy pants."

"You know you love me," Louis teased, leaning into for a kiss. Harry shook his head and pulled away, his smile daring.

"Hey, you're not getting away with this mister," Harry scolded. His smile never left his face. "Tell me--what's your least favourite thing about me?"

Louis paused and scrunched his nose. “Okay, well there is one thing--”

“Oh my _God,_ Lou!” Harry interrupted, his face warped from his drunken giggles, and he hit his boyfriend in the face with a throw pillow. “I cannot believe you’re not willing to tell me what your favourite thing about me is, but you’re going to tell my your _least_ favourite!”

“You asked!”

“Okay, okay. Go.”

“My least favourite thing about you, my dearest Harold, is that you always kick me in your sleep.”

Harry hit him with the throw pillow again. “I don’t kick in my sleep.”

Louis nodded. “You do. It got so bad that I thought about wearing my shin pads to bed.”

Harry blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I even moved in my sleep.”

Louis smiled and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. “It’s okay love. You can’t help it.”

Harry grinned, pressing a kiss against Louis’ lips.

“Okay,” Louis said, running his hands through Harry’s hair, “your turn. What’s your least favourite thing about me?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Harry giggled. He reached over and gently stroked the course hair across Louis’ chin. “I don’t like your beard.”

Louis’ hand subconsciously flew to his face, his fingertips grazing the prickly stubble along his jaw. “What? I thought you liked it--”

“I do like it,” Harry interrupted. “But I’m not talking about the one on your face.”

 ***

 **beautiful** , _adj._

It’s the way Louis laughs,

And the way he kisses,

And the way he looks in the morning.

 

It’s the way Louis’ eyes look like the sky,

And the way his skin is peppered with freckles,

And the way it’s impossible to count them all.

 

It’s the way Louis cries,

And the way his hugs feel,

And the way he knows when to order a pizza without being asked first.

 

It’s the way Louis can go on for hours about soccer,

And the way he gets mad when they have a disagreement,

And the way his kisses feel when they make up.

 

It’s the way Louis holds him when he cries,

And the way he says it’ll all be fine,

And the way it always does turn out fine.

 

It’s the way Louis breathes,

And the way he talks in his sleep,

And the way he even walks in his sleep sometimes.

 

It’s the way Louis calls him at night,

And the way they stay up talking,

And the way it doesn’t matter how far away they are.

 

It’s the way Louis loves him,

And the way he loves Louis,

And the way he makes anything seem possible.

It’s in all these ways and more that make Louis Tomlinson beautiful,

  
And it’s in all these ways that make Harry want to be beautiful, too.

 ***

 **betray** , _v._  
  
“Harry. Harry, I’m so sorry,” Louis had said. His voice wasn’t his voice though; it was a strangled version of his voice, strangled because he felt the choking that Harry was feeling in that moment, the constant pain filling his lungs and drowning him.

Harry just shook his head. He wiped his cheeks and nose with the sleeve of his shirt, leaving it stained with tears.

“What was I supposed to do, Harry?” Louis  pleaded. It was not a rhetorical question, he really wanted to know. He wanted to make things right. He _had_ to make things right again.

“Anything but _that_ ,” Harry sniffled angrily in response, and he tugged at his hair because he didn’t know what else to do.

“But I couldn’t just _leave_ her there,” Louis insisted. Harry scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“It’s _always_ about her, isn’t it?” Harry had screamed, and he started crying again.

Louis felt his own lips quivering, and the back of his eyes were prickling. This was the end, Louis could feel it, Harry could feel it, and they didn’t want it to be.

“Lou, I get that she’s important to you. To all of us. I really, really get that. But I cannot _deal_ with this anymore, alright?” Harry sputtered through shaking lips and chattering teeth.

Louis couldn’t hold it back anymore. His own tears fell from his eyes. “What do you want me to do, Harry? Do you want me to choose between you and her? Because--”

Harry interrupted him, his voice quavering. “I don’t want you to choose between us, okay? But if this happens again….I just don’t--”

A sob escaped Harry’s lips before he could finish.

 ***

 **boyfriend** , _n._

Despite his reputation, Harry has never really been anyone’s boyfriend. Not in the way it really mattered.

His first kiss happened behind his house. He had been dared to kiss any girl willing to pucker up, and it didn’t really matter to him who it was. He was just excited to finally get it over with. But when he kissed her, Harry was disappointed because he didn’t feel any different. Wasn’t he supposed to feel butterflies in his stomach? Wasn’t there supposed to be something?

It wasn’t until he met Louis that his kisses made him feel something.

Harry had had a few boyfriends in the past, all of them naïve experiments to determine his sexuality. He also had had his share of girlfriends, but none of them made him feel the way he did with Louis.

It was strange. Before he met Louis, Harry wasn’t looking to be anyone’s boyfriend, he was just looking for himself. He was trying to be someone he didn’t know yet, trying to look for a stranger that wasn’t there. And when he met Louis, it was as if he finally found the light at the end of the tunnel, the path toward whom he was going to be. He finally realized that he didn’t want to be just anyone’s boyfriend. No, he wanted to be Louis’ boyfriend.

When they first started seeing each other, it was fun and flirty. They hadn’t kissed yet, because Harry was waiting for the perfect moment. So he settled for their movie nights spent cuddling and giggles, and that was enough. There were times when he wanted so badly to kiss Louis, but he didn’t want to mess anything up. They had the future of their band and their relationship on the line.

The day was February twenty-second, eight days after Valentine’s Day. Harry and Louis were sitting on Harry’s bed, cuddling and pretending to watch a movie. Despite the fact that they had gone on dates, and cuddled, and even slept in the same bed sometimes, Harry didn’t know whether or not Louis considered him his boyfriend. Harry was constantly worrying about what he was to Louis, and he had been so preoccupied with his feelings for that even the other bandmates were beginning to notice his odd behavior. They knew that Harry and Louis were spending more and more time together, sure, but they weren’t really sure whether or not it was just a phase.

Harry often spent his time inside his own head, trying to figure out what to do about his relationship. On that February day, while he was tangled up in Louis’ lap, his thoughts were interrupted by a piece of paper falling into his lap. Confused, Harry looked at Louis, who had a sly grin on his face.

“Go on,” Louis encouraged, nodding his head at the paper. “Read it.”

Slowly, Harry unfolded the piece of lined paper. There was a poem written on it, and Harry felt his cheeks grow warm as he read it.

   
_Roses are red,_

_Your eyes are blue,_

_I know it’s not Valentine’s Day,_

_But I have something to say._

_Do I have your permission to do something rash?_

_Stop me if I’m out of line,_

_But I’ve been looking for the right time,_

_To tell you exactly how I feel._

_I know that it’s strange, I know that it’s sudden,_

_But today you look as cute as a button._

_There’s no easy way to say this,_

_But I must confess,_

_I’d like to be your boyfriend,_

_If you would just say yes._

  
Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked once, twice, three times before being able to look at Louis, who was smiling. Harry noticed the blush tinging his cheeks.

“So?” Louis asked. “What do you say?"

“I-uh,” Harry stammered. His lips curled over his teeth, grinning so wide it almost hurt. “Yeah. Yes, I’d like to be your boyfriend.”

Louis smiled. Harry smiled even bigger.

“Can I say something, though?” Harry asked.

“Anything,” Louis replied.

Harry pointed to the paper. “My eyes aren’t blue, they’re green,” he giggled.

Louis rolled his eyes, still smiling. He reached for Harry’s hoodie, pulling him closer. “C’mere, you,” he teased.

And that’s when Harry kissed his boyfriend.

* * *

**C is for…**

**choke,** _v._

“Please don’t...please don’t cry, Harry,” Louis pleaded. “I can...I’m going to make this better, just tell me what to do.”

Harry shook his head. There were streaks of ugly tears staining his cheeks and his nose was red and raw. Nothing he could say would register in Louis’ head. He had spent years telling him what do about her, and they all told him it would end soon. But wherever Harry went was another magazine with a picture of her and Louis’ smiling faces with a headline of how great of a boyfriend Louis was, or how supportive of a girlfriend she was, and were the rumours about their engagement true? Harry knew that Louis didn’t _actually_ have feelings for her, but tonight of all nights, their anniversary, Louis had tweeted a picture with her instead of getting home on time.

“Harry, please talk to me--”

“Sh-shut up,” Harry blubbered. “I have waited all night for you to come home. You didn’t even text me or call me. Instead, on our anniversary, you stay out late with your _fake girlfriend_.”

Louis didn’t know what to say. He hated to see Harry hurting like this. He tried to reach out to him, but Harry just flinched away.

“I love you, Louis,” Harry seethed. “I love you so much, but--”

Another sob had escaped Harry’s lips and his throat felt constricted. Choking, he was choking. He had all the words boiling at the bottom of his throat, but no sound came out. His whole body was shaking with the tremors of his sobs. He hugged his knees up to chest and buried his face in his arms.

This was it. This was the moment both of them feared would come. The moment when Louis would walk away and Harry would be forced to trudge along that dark path again. The rumours about them, the ones they hoped they would be able to confirm one day, they wouldn’t matter anymore. They wouldn’t be able to read through the arguments on various websites about whether or not they were in a relationship.

Louis sat down on the couch beside Harry. He didn’t touch him, no matter how badly he wanted to. He watched as Harry cried, wiping away a few of his own stray tears with the back of his sleeve.

“Harry,” Louis whispered. “I love you. More than anything. I know that nothing I say will make it better, but I love you and I want to make things right and better for you. For us,” he added quickly. Carefully, he placed his hand on Harry’s back. When Harry didn’t move away, Louis moved closer and began to soothingly rub circles between his shoulders.

Neither of them wanted it to be over.

Harry had spent so much time watching and wishing that he were her, dreaming of a day where he could go out and hold Louis’ hand in public. He had spent so much time holding back touches and comments and kisses. He was tired of hiding, tired of choking back the love he felt for Lou. He didn’t know how much longer he could continue hiding his secret.

He was so tired of hiding.

Harry broke from his ball and collapsed into Louis, gripping onto the front of his shirt. His fingers curled around it so tightly he felt he could never let go. Louis didn’t want him to let go. He would never admit it, not to Harry, but Louis needed him as much Harry needed Louis. Without him, he wouldn’t know how to find himself out of the dark tunnel that he had somehow saved Harry from all those years ago. He had latched himself onto Harry; he was his protector, and he was protected.

Neither of them could let go.

 *****  
**   
couch , _n._

Friday evening, 8:45 PM. A storm was sweeping across London, causing all the power lines to be shut down. Harry and Louis didn’t mind; there’s a lot you can do in the dark at night.

It was Louis’ idea to build a fort out of couch cushions and blankets. Together, he and Harry collected all the blankets from their bed, all the pillows, and all the cushions, piling them up and draping the blankets over them like a tent. They made a little spot inside just big enough for them to lie down in, and lit candles so they could see one another.

They felt like little kids at a sleepover again, staying up late giggling and telling stories. When they were tired, they just lay in each other’s arms and traced patterns on each other’s faces. They both fought against their drooping eyelids, but it was eventually Louis who fell asleep first.

The next morning, it was him who had to clean up the couch cushions.

* * *

**D is for…**

**dance** , _v._

 “Dance with me.”

“But there’s no music.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“But I can’t dance without music.”

“We’re musicians, we’ll make up a song.”

“But I can’t dance.”

“That’s bullshit. You can dance. Come here.”

“But--”

“Please, Lou? For me.”

“ _Fine_. But if I step on your feet, it’s not my fault.”

“Okay.”

“This is so cheesy.”

“Stop being such a downer! Look, follow my feet….There, you’re dancing like a pro!”

“Since when do you know how to dance?”

“I don’t.”

“You’re pretty confident for someone who doesn’t know how to dance.”

“Well, I do know how to twerk pretty well.”

“No, do _not_ bring that up. You looked ridiculous.”

“You liked it, don’t lie.”

“Hmm.”

“ _Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper, ‘I love you--’_ ”

“You’re silly.”

“ _Birds singin’ in the sycamore tree--_ ”

“Dream a little dream of me.”

“ _Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me; while I’m alone and blue as can be--_ ”

“Stars fading, but I linger on, dear, still craving your kiss.”

“Louis?”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you serious?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Alright.”

“Have you seen the movie _Beautiful Thing_?”

“No, why?”

“I was just wondering how you knew the lyrics to that song. It was in that movie.”

“Oh. My mum used to sing it to me when I was little.”

“The movie?”

“No, the song.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Dancing with me. You were a wonderful dance partner.”

“You’re welcome.”

"I love you, Louis."

"I love you too, Harry. So much."

 ***

 **domestic** , _adj._

It started with a drawer. Harry needed a place to put his bracelets and hats, so he claimed the top drawer of Louis’ bedside table. After many nights spent at Louis’ apartment, it was soon known as Harry’s Drawer, and was reserved for anything that belonged to him.

Soon, it was a closet. He had forgotten his sweatshirt at Louis’ house, so Louis washed it and hung it up. Once Harry retrieved it, he seemed to always be forgetting other clothing items, so Louis got fed up and just cleared out half his closet space for Harry’s clothes. Sometime he even borrowed a shirt or two if he needed one.

One day, Harry came over to Louis’ apartment with a bag of groceries. When he asked why, Harry told Louis, “I noticed that last week you didn’t have anything in your fridge, so I stopped by at the market for you.”

They soon stepped into this routine. Harry spent so much time at Louis’ apartment that they both just decided to sell Harry’s flat and have him move in with Louis. They had some house agreements: Harry would sleep on the right side of the bed, laundry day was every Wednesday, and because Louis couldn’t cook, Harry would teach him until he knew how to himself.

The other boys all started teasing them about how they were like an old married couple. Harry and Louis usually brushed off their teasing, because they both knew that it was true.

* * *

**E is for…**

**enzymes** , _n_.

On the outside, everything is normal. His face, his clothes, his hair.

But on the inside, everything is changing.

Everything is just chemicals upon chemicals upon chemicals.

They’re moving faster and faster, and he’s breathing them in. But there aren’t enough chemicals, he can’t get close enough to the drug he craves. No matter how close they are, he can’t seem to get close enough. He tries, oh how he tries, but in reality, nothing actually touches, everything just floats. No matter how much he begs for more, no matter how much he pleads for that closeness, it can never be achieved. He can try, and the human body will try to consume the drug, and that should be good enough.

But humans are greedy. He knows that he’s greedy. He knows that trying should be good enough, but it won’t be. He wants to get closer, _needs_ to get closer. And just for a moment, he wishes he were a child, unaware of how far away he is from the drug.

He wants to laugh, because he knows that he’s being childish. He knows that when it’s over, when he overcomes his high, he’ll want his space. But right here, right now, he wishes that he could be as close as possible to becoming one person, one body.

And he will try.

 ***

 **escapade** , _n._

Love is an adventure that Harry wishes he wasn’t a part of.

* * *

  **F is for…**

 **façade** _, n_.

They’re doing an interview with Alan Carr. It’s late. They’re high off the energy in the room. Alan begins by commending the boys on their talent and dashing good looks, then starts bouncing back and forth between the boy to answer the questions. Louis is tired, but he keeps smiling. He tunes half of his mind out, the other half is like a robot, laughing when he’s supposed to laugh and nodding when he’s supposed to nod. It’s always like this. He’s mastered it.

“Let’s talk girlfriends,” Alan smiles.

Louis begins shuffling through the archives of his brain, preparing for whatever script he’ll recite tonight. Harry goes first, because he is the closest to the interviewer and everyone loves him. They discuss his love life, the audience chuckling because they don’t believe him when he says he doesn’t have a girlfriend. They don’t want to believe it, but some hope it’s true. They want him all to themselves.

Louis glances at the audience, then at Harry. Alan notices this because now it’s his turn.

“You have a girlfriend,” he says matter-of-factly. “And how long have you been dating?”

Louis thinks. He skims through his monologues his manager implanted in his mind. He can feel all eyes on him; nosey fans who know the answer and don’t want him to mess up, bandmates and friends that know the truth, interviewer too stupid to see past society’s molded image.

Louis finds the line.

“Um, a while. I’m not good with numbers, Alan, I’m sorry mate,” he says.

“Wow,” Alan says with wide eyes. The crowd echoes him.

“Yeah, wow.” Louis sips the water on the table.

“So, you two have been together for a while. How does she cope with all your fame?”

New script. “Well, she’s pretty good with that stuff. She’s tough.”

“I’ll bet. So, tell me, do you think she’s The One? Are you ready to settle down?”

“Uh,” Louis says. His eyes cut to meet Harry’s. They exchange an infinitesimal glance, and within it they are speaking to one another.

 _Say something_ , Harry’s eyes say.

 _Like what?_ Louis responds.

 _A lie_ , Harry says, then he pretends to be preoccupied with the couch.

“Well,” Louis stammers again, “you know, we’re both young. We don’t want to rush into anything, you know?”

Alan nods. Unsatisfied by the the lack of gossip in Louis’ answer, he turns his attention to the topic of some other wedding.

He’s safe.

Louis likes her. She gives him company, plus she doesn’t spill the truth about him. She makes the fans happy, or at least some of them. She gives him good publicity most of the time. As long as she keeps up the act, then he can, too.

But that’s all it is. An act. They don’t love each other. They barely speak to one another. When they step out together it’s like he’s on set for a movie. He plays the part he was hired to play. He puts up a mask in order to entertain and amuse the public. And when the day is done, he strips off the mask and slips back into his comfortable solitude.

Louis looks back at Harry, who is still picking at something on the couch, not really paying attention in that way he usually does. Louis tries to get his attention by clearing his throat and shifting on the couch. It doesn’t work, so Louis makes a thumbs up symbol and starts tapping his own knee with his thumb nonchalantly. Niall, who is sitting beside him, notices this. He looks at Louis for a moment; he knows. They all know. So as Liam and Alan are discussing something, Niall stares at Harry until it makes him feel uncomfortable.

That’s when Harry turns his head and looks from Niall to Louis. His eyes trail down to lock on his knee, on the thumbs up. Louis wants to know if he’s okay, and that’s why he’s doing their special sign. Harry looks at Alan, but mimics Louis’ action.

They’re both safe for now, and that’s all that matters.

 *****  
**   
fashion , _n._

  
There’s lots of feathers and fur and leather, and Harry is living for it. He’s got his camera in his hand, snapping pictures of Louis pouring himself across the couch, the kitchen table, the bed. Louis grabs a pair of Harry’s sunglasses and slides them on his face, looks down at Harry in a way that’s both seductive and mysterious. It’s hot, Harry can’t help but think, and he smiles the entire time Louis does this impromptu fashion show.

“You should try this with the red jacket,” Harry suggests, tossing the leather choker at Louis.

Louis catches it and grins before clipping it in place. He strips the faux fur coat from his body and puts Harry’s red silk blazer on. It’s slightly too big, but clings to his skin like dew on a flower. Harry can’t help himself, and he puts his camera down to plant a kiss on Louis’ mouth. It’s soft at first, but he can feel the heat rising in his belly.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, his thumb sliding across Louis’ cheek.

“Am I?” Louis asks, kissing him again. It’s a little forceful this time and it makes both their stomachs dip.

“How about we take this jacket off and the real show can start,” Harry mutters.

Louis grins against his kiss.

* * *

**G is for…**

  **green** _, adj._

Sometimes, after a rainstorm, a few raindrops glisten on the grass and the trees, making everything seem like it’s covered in glass. Louis is explaining this to Harry, because he’s drunk, and Harry’s eyes are really green, “...like the fuckin’grass.”

“You’re really drunk,” Harry says, laughing.

Louis takes another swig of his drink, shakes his head, and says, “No, no, seriously, Hazz, I think your eyes are _actually_ made from little pieces of jewels or something.” He turns to some random person at the bar, and points at Harry. “His eyes. They look like some sort of jewels, right? Like, he _is_ a _fuckin’_ alien child, right?”

The person doesn’t respond. He just looks at Harry, confused and slightly terrified. Harry is chuckling.

“Come on, I think it’s time to go,” Harry tells Louis. He hops off the barstool and guides Louis away.

Louis is drunk and rambling and tumbles on the sidewalk back to the apartment. Harry is afraid he’ll fall over, even though he’s supporting him.

“I’ve always liked the colour green,” Louis is mumbling.

“I thought your favourite colour was red,” Harry murmurs.

Louis shrugs. “I dunno. ‘m not prejudice against colours.” Harry laughs again and they keep shuffling along.

It’s late and they’re in a pretty secluded part of town, so there aren’t very many people out. Harry tells Louis they’re almost home, and prays that there aren’t any fans outside to see them like this.

“You know what I used to hate about this country?” Louis mumbles, his words slurring together. “It’s always raining. I used to hate the rain as a kid, and I used to hate that all we had was grass. Other places at least get snow, but not England. We just just rain and green, green grass.”

They reach their apartment. Harry reaches into his pocket to see if he has an extra key, which he doesn’t, but Louis hands him his keys.

“But it’s weird,” Louis continues, “cause then I met you, yeah? And I noticed that your eyes were green. And I slowly started to like the rain again.”

Harry seats Louis on the couch, and says, “Wait here,” before retreating into the kitchen for some painkillers and a glass of water. He can hear Louis mumbling to himself and Harry cries. He doesn’t know why, but he does. And as he brings Louis the painkillers and water, he still cries, but Louis doesn’t notice.

“Swallow this,” he tells Louis, and he swallows it in one chug.

Harry takes a seat on the couch and Louis scrambles to cuddle with him. He brushes Louis’ sweat ridden hair away from his forehead and Louis yawns at his touch. His breath smells putrid, a pungent mix between beer and sweat and rain, and Harry is just praying that this beautiful boy won’t feel bad in the morning.

* * *

**H is for…**

  **home,** _n._

They know each other like the back of their hands. Every dip in their skin, every freckle, every bump. When something is good they know, and when something is bad they know. And when things get bad, they remember that at the end of the day they have each other.

Today has been a bad day. Louis wants to forget everything that’s happened and just lie here in Harry’s arms. Harry is happy to give him that, running his hands through Louis’ hair and peppering his cheeks and neck with soft kisses. He coos softly in his ear, assuring him that everything is going to be alright.

Louis listens, and slowly slowly slowly he feels alright. He feels comfortable and loved and warm. He turns his head to give Harry a smile, then leans and places a soft kiss on his lips. Harry cradles his face softly, his thumb grazing across Louis’ cheek.

They feel safe and they feel at home.

* * *

**I is for…**

**infinitesimal,** _adj._

Holding his breath, Louis’ fingertips graze over Harry’s bare back, careful not to wake him. The pale morning sunlight shines through the cracks in the blinds, spilling light across Harry’s skin. Louis drags his fingers, starting from his neck, and works his way down and across Harry’s back. Under his breath, Louis counts the seemingly endless freckles dotting Harry’s porcelain-like skin.

Louis’ fingers trail along his spine, across his shoulder blades, and up and down the dip in his back. It’s like a connect-the-dots game Louis used to play as a child. Harry has freckles splayed everywhere: his neck, his shoulders, his sides.

Harry stirs in his sleep, turning to face Louis, who now has to restart his counting. Not that he minds. He likes getting to know Harry’s body, exploring the dips and curves of his skin. He could lay like this for hours, just staring and unravelling the mystery behind Harry’s existence.

Louis is at fifty freckles before Harry is moaning and squirming awake. He blinks his eyes open his eyelashes tickling his cheekbones. He smiles at Louis, who smiles back.

They don’t say anything for a very long time. Harry just blinks the sleep out of his eyes and Louis watches. None of them break the silence between them; they wish this moment could last forever. Just the two of them, alone for eternity.

* * *

**J is for…**

**jerk** , _n._

Louis tried to stop him. He tried to unpack the suitcases that Harry was bringing out of the house. He was begging, pleading for Harry not to go. His sentences were jumbled and strung together, trying to patch together a safety net for Harry to land on, to save them both.

“Please, don’t go,” Louis uttered, trying to grab at the bag in Harry’s hand. Harry ignored him and continued storming past. “Harry, you’re not thinking straight,” Louis tried. “Come on. Get your bags and come back inside and we can work this out.”

Harry stopped walking and shot Louis an icy look that could have killed him. He continued to stomp out the door.

“Harry, I know you’re mad, babe. I know. But let’s just sit down with some tea and discuss things!”

Louis reached for Harry, anything that he could touch, and grabbed his elbow. Harry whirled around to face him, his face seething and his lips wavering, no doubt from the tears threatening to form behind his eyes.

“Please,” Louis said softly, “don’t go. I’m sorry. I was wrong, okay? Now come back inside and we can talk. Come on, please. I love you.”

Harry looked at the hand curled around his arms, then at Louis’ pleading eyes. Inside of him, a storm was bubbling. He wanted to scream at Louis, to kick him, and punch him. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He loved Louis too much, even if he had hurt him. Over and over and over again.

Love was complicated.

“Please say something,” Louis begged, his eyes flicking back and forth between Harry’s, trying to understand what he was feeling.

Harry took a deep breath. “Let me go,” he said through clenched teeth, and ripped his arm out of Louis’ grasp.

He stormed out into the hallway of their building, and Louis raced to try and stop him again. Harry spun around before he could take another step.

“Go back inside the flat, Louis,” Harry instructed. “I don’t want to see you, or hear you, or touch you right now. You have to _grow up_ and sort out your priorities.”

Louis stood there, dumbfounded, unable to utter a word, except for, “Harry--”

Harry didn’t want to hear it. He stepped forward and his voice echoed through the hall, “Don’t. Don’t call me until you promise not to break my heart again. I don’t want to date a jerk.”

* * *

**K is for…**

**kisses** , _n._  

There are kisses, oh so many kisses. There are kisses in the rain, kisses in the back of a dark theatre, kisses that are secrets. There are chapped-lip kisses, pancake kisses, drunk kisses. There are kisses between boys, kisses between girls. There are the kisses they’ll regret, kisses they wish will never end, kisses they are still unsure about.

And all the while they are kissing, they are thinking, why? Why do people kiss? These are things that they’re too afraid to ask. It is too silly to ask. But it was still there in the back of their minds.

Of course, they will later find out why people kiss. They will find out that it wasn’t the reason they were taught to believe growing up, either. No, they will learn that kisses are promises. They are a promise to keep a secret, a promise to never give up, a promise to keep loving someone forever. But forever is a long time and promises are easily broken. They will both learn that the hard way.

But they will keep fighting to keep kissing each other. Always. There will be kisses when they fight, kisses when they want to keep holding on, kisses when they make up. They will continue making promises with each other, and there will always be kisses.

* * *

**L is for…**

**lackluster,** _adj._

Of course, Harry didn’t want to go. But he knew that he was worth more than the lies. He tried to make excuses for why he was leaving. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t actually working, that there wasn’t any chemistry between them, that they were too different. He tried to convince himself that Louis wasn’t good for him, but he knew it was a lie.

He was a horrible liar. Everyone knew that.

He tried to convince himself that the spark wasn’t there. He tried to convince himself that things

were getting dull early on. Every good thing must come to end, that’s what his mum always told him.

But he didn’t want it to be the end.

* * *

**M is for…**

**magnet** , _n._

Harry doesn’t really remember when he first started noticing how beautiful Louis is; the thin line separating his thoughts of ‘good looking’ and ‘beautiful’ just seemed to dissipate without further warning.  
   
Sure, there was no denying that Louis Tomlinson was a good looking guy, and Harry was aware of this when he had first run into Louis in the bathroom. But soon after they were paired together as a band, he was catching himself just staring at Louis absentmindedly as they chatted away; subtle at first, admiring the way Louis’ eyes glistened a different shade of blue in particular lighting, noticing how great his complexion was. Soon Harry was noticing the little things that nobody ever notices about a person: the way Louis sometimes laughed when in awkward situations, or how his hair still looked perfect after a long and tiresome day, or how one of Louis’ eyes scrunched at the edges more than the other whenever he laughed.   

Harry had never been one to care much about outside appearances, but after some time examining and questioning the flawlessness that was Louis William Tomlinson--as if he were some sort of science experiment needing to be poked and probed--it got to the point where Harry _aspired_ to look like Louis, just to make himself feel flawless, too. He would sometimes ask Louis, “Do you, like, put anything in your hair to make it look like that?” and Louis would often blush and look at Harry uncomfortably.

“Uh, no, I don’t really put anything in my hair,” Louis would stammer. “I mean, I just wash it with shampoo and conditioner, you know? Just the, uh, usual.”

Harry would nod, not certainly convinced, but he wouldn’t say anything more. He would just admire from afar, every so often commenting and asking questions about Louis’ attire. And Louis would answer him, because that was the right thing to do, even though it was kind of strange.

Looking at Louis right now, asleep with his mouth open just the tiniest of cracks, his chest rising and falling slowly and rhythmically, Harry tries to remember when he realized that Louis was different from all the other boys he’d ever met.

He can’t.

Louis can’t remember any of these firsts, either, not because it _wasn’t_ important, but because it _was_ important. He tries to remember the first time he let himself get close to Harry--physically close, not just with their geeky conversations. Everything seemed to happen so fast, too fast almost, that he can’t remember the transitions they’d made in their relationship: one minute they were solely friends, and the next they were realizing the true meaning of love.

It wasn’t just the exterior of one another the boys craved, either. No, their minds were so intriguing and they both yearned to know what the other was thinking. Sometimes they would leave subtle hints at things, asking each other what their opinions were on different things.  
  
“Do you like any sports other than football?” Harry would ask.   

“Yeah, who doesn’t like sports?” Louis would reply. “Do _you_ like sports?”

“Of course; like you said, who doesn’t like sports?”  
     
This little game went on for weeks. It was their own subtle way of trying to get into each other’s head without sounding awkward.  
     
And slowly but surely, the boys found themselves gravitating towards each other, like opposite sides of a magnet.

* * *

**N is for…  
**   
**nightmare,** _n._  
  
It's one of those nights where neither boys can sleep. Somehow Harry managed to crawl into bed next to Louis, craving to feel the other boy's warm skin against his own. Louis had been startled at first, but he welcomed his curly haired boyfriend with eager arms. They both laid down on their sides and just stared at each other for a while; they didn't speak, nor did they move. They simply listened to the steady rise and fall of the other's chest as he breathed.

That's how they've been for hours. At some point during the evening, Louis asks Harry what's wrong, but he can't remember. Perhaps he'd had a bad dream, but all those restless thoughts have since been long chased away.

So, they begin talking. There isn't anything in particular they discuss - whenever something crosses their minds, they say it. Sometimes one of them laughs at what the other is saying, and sometimes they just trace patterns along each other's chests and arms with the tips of their own fingers as they listen intently.

It's been too long since they've felt this much at peace. Their lives are crazy and hectic, and they can barely squeeze any time into their schedules to think. It's refreshing and homely being so close to each other and pouring their hearts out.

At one point - sometime during the infant hours of a new morning - the conversation falls on the topic of the future, more importantly, _their_ future.

"Do you think you'll ever want to get married?" Harry asks, his fingers fumbling with the collar of Louis' T-shirt.

Louis shrugs. "Well, yeah, I do want to get married one day. Not anytime soon, but one day." He pauses for a moment. "Do you want to get married?"

Harry squints his eyes for a moment, lost in both the concentration of adjusting the top of Louis' shirt, and in thought.

"Haz?"

"Mm-hmm?" Harry says, then he remembers the question. "Oh, yes, I want to get married. You know, buy a nice house, have kids. Maybe get a dog."

Louis nods. He runs his thumb along Harry's jaw, and the other boy sinks into the touch. Harry's eyelashes flutter against the top of his cheeks.

"Louis, can I ask you something?" Harry murmurs. Louis nods, prompting him to go on. He hesitates, his eyes flitting back and forth between Louis', his lips pursed. "Are you going to ask her to marry you one day?"

Louis' eyebrows knit together in confusion. He shakes his head a few times, trying to think about _why_ Harry would ask such a question. They both know that she is only a friend, a convenient person to use as a cover up story to make their management look good. He would never propose to her, even she knew that. So why didn't Harry seem to?

"Harry, what are you on about?" Louis asks, still trying to grasp his mind around the question. "Why would I ever ask her to marry me?"

Harry looks everywhere but at Louis, his cheeks burning. "I don't know. I mean, I know that you love me, but - I don't know. I'm just tired, is all. I'm tired of never being able to sit next to you during interviews anymore, or being able to touch you during performances. You know Neil Patrick Harris and David Burkta?" Harry asks. Louis nods, not sure where the conversation is headed. "Well, I always see pictures of them together with their kids. And it always makes me wonder, why can't we do that? Why can't we be able to hold hands or kiss each other on the cheek?"

"Harry - "

"Louis, I'm serious!" Harry's voice is shaking, and the back of his eyes are beginning to sting. "I love you, and I want to be able to show the world!"

"Harry, slow down."

Harry takes a deep breath. He's tired and angry. "I'm sorry," he stammers, trying to control his shaking voice. "I know I'm acting like a baby."

Louis chuckles. He kisses the tip of Harry's nose, feeling the faintest brush of eyelashes against his face as Harry blinks.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," Louis assures him. "One day, we're going to get married, and I'm going to buy you a proper house, and we're going to have _lots_ and _lots_ of babies. Little curly-haired things running around for you to catch. We can even get you a dog. But, you've got to be patient, love."

Harry sighs, then grins at the boy next to him. Louis is far too good to him. He nuzzles his face into the crook of Louis' collarbone, snuggling close to the boy's chest. He yawns, his energy drained as the Moon is just dipping away behind the hills.

Louis kisses the mop of curls atop Harry's head, and the two dream of the road ahead of them.

* * *

**O is for…**

**only** , _adv._  
  
It is only him who makes him feel the way he does.

It is only him who makes him feel as if anything is possible.

It is only him who makes him want to be a better person.

It is only him who hold him close when he cries.

It is only him who stays up late to tell stories.

It is only him who watches movies with him that he has already seen a thousand times.

It is only him who has no problem with the way he dresses.

It is only him who has no problem with the music he listens to.

It is only him who calls him late at night when he can’t sleep, and it is only him who he can tolerate talking to during their calls.

It is only him who knows him better than he knows himself.

It is only him he wants to share the rest of his life with.

It is only him.

* * *

**P is for…  
**   
**posterity** , _n._  
  
Louis could have sworn he was dreaming. Tears filled his eyes as the little body was placed in his arms. It had been a long wait, but finally the squirming little bundle had arrived. Resembling a porcelain doll, with rosy cheeks and a button nose, his little baby brother was fast asleep in his arms.

"Hey little guy," Harry sang softly, brushing the light sprinkle of dark hair away from the baby's tiny face. The baby yawned and rubbed his face with tiny little fists. Harry gawked at him in awe, his whole face lighting up as he stroked the little human’s face gingerly.

“Isn’t he good?” Louis’ mum asked. “He hasn’t cried at all.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathed. He swayed his little brother in his arms as Lottie held their newborn sister.

“I bet Louis wasn’t this good, was he?” Harry joked, poking the baby fist lightly. Louis shot him a playful look and Johanna laughed.

“Definitely not,” she said. “He was always crying. I was lucky if I got four hours of sleep when he was a baby.”

“I know the feeling. _I’m_ lucky if he let’s me sleep all night -”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis scolded, “not now.”

Harry chuckled and kissed Louis’ cheek. “I’m only teasing, love.”

Johanna looked at the two of them together, and tears were welling in her eyes. She could see that one day, much later in the future, she would be back in a room like this, except she would be staring at her son and son-in-law holding their own child--she was certain of that.

* * *

**Q is for…**

  **quotes** , _n._

_When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew._

 

* * *

**R is for…  
** **  
**romance _, n._  
  
" _Close your eyes, and I'll kiss you--"_

"Harry, what are you doing?"

" _Tomorrow I'll miss you--"_

"I thought we were going to watch a movie, Harry."

" _Remember I'll always be true."_

"Why are you still singing?"

" _And then while I'm away--"_

"Harry, no! Don't you even come near me!"

" _I'll write home every day--"_

"I hate you."

" _And I'll send all my loving to you."_

"Are you done?"

Harry grins. "I'm not even at the chorus yet, babe."

Louis scoffs. "I'm not letting you get that far, you dork."

 

* * *

**S is for…**

**serrated** , _n._

There was an invisible knife cutting through them. But not between Harry and Louis. No, the knife was cutting a fissure between the fans. They argued day and night over who was right, the words _delusional_ , _respect_ , and _stupid_ being thrown around like bombs. The boys hated seeing their work being contorted into something evil. They didn’t blame the fans, of course, because they didn’t know better. If they knew the truth, they would have been forced to respect the boys. But they didn’t know.

Louis blamed himself for this, really. He blamed himself for letting their management stomp all over them like puppets. He blamed himself for thinking that he could do this for so long.

But he also blamed society. He blamed society for not letting two boys hold each other’s hands as they walked down the street. He blamed society for demeaning boys who liked boys, or girls who liked girls, or people who liked neither and all. He knew that times were changing quickly, but they weren’t changing quick enough.

* * *

******T is for…**

 **Tomlinson** , _n._

“I have a nickname for you,” Harry said one day.

He and Niall came out of nowhere and plopped right down on the couch of the hotel room. They were on tour somewhere, and because of the teenage girls screaming outside, they weren’t allowed to leave. So, they sat around and talked or slept.

“What’s the nickname?” Louis asked, yawning from the jet lag.

Harry and Niall exchanged a giggle. “This is stupid,” Niall said.

“Hey, it was you who came up with it!” retorted Harry.

“Boys,” Louis said, “please, just spit it out. I’m in no mood for bullshit.”

Niall nudged Harry in the ribs, urging him to speak. Harry rolled his eyes at Niall.

“Fine, I’ll tell him.” Harry turned to Louis. “Okay. How do you like the name, ‘L-Tizzle’? Personally, I think it’s brilliant.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “ _L-Tizzle_? What does that even mean?”

“Oh, you know,” Niall explained, “like, Louis Tomlinson. L-Tizzle. Get it?”

Louis frowned. “Uh--”

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Harry laughed. He clapped Niall on the back. “Nialler came up with it.”

“Oh, you have a nickname for him, too?” Louis asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. He has one for me, too.”

“Yeah, I call him Curly Sue. For obvious reasons.”

Louis nodded. He rolled his nickname around in his head for a bit. He stroked his chin. “Hmm. L-Tizzle doesn’t _too_ bad, I guess. It makes me sound kind of like a wannabe white rapper.” He winked at Harry. “I’ve always wanted to be a rapper.” 

* * *

**U is for…**

**umbrella** , _n._

In England, it always rains. For Christmas one year, on top of Harry’s Christmas list, he asked for an umbrella. Louis didn’t know why, but he that’s what Harry was asking for. So, Louis shopped around for an umbrella that wasn’t average, because that would be boring. She pointed some out to him, but none of them were good enough.

That’s when he saw it, an umbrella with cats and dogs printed on it.

It was perfect. He knew that with Harry’s sense of humor, he would understand what it meant. Raining cats and dogs. There were even little raindrops on it. He picked it up and laughed.

“You’re going to give him _that_?” She asked, appearing behind him.

“Yeah, it’s perfect.” He twirled it in his hands.

“But it’s so...ugly,” She said.

“It’s not ugly,” Louis defended. “It’s a perfect gift for a perfect boy.”

Without another word, he bought it. And Harry loved it.

* * *

**V is for…**

  **voluminous** _, adj._

 Girls are obsessed with Harry’s curls. If only they knew what they looked like when he got out of the shower.

* * *

**W is for…**

**woo** _, v._

“Perfect date?”

“I dunno.”

“Tell me.”

“But you already know the answer to that.”

“Maybe it changed while you were gone.”

“Louis, it hasn’t changed.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go.”

“‘ _If a girl were to woo you, how could she do it?’_ ”

“What the hell?”

“It’s a legitimate question!”

“Are you reading that off of something?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, if a girl were to woo _me_ , they’d have to be a boy.”

“Ha ha, I’ll e-mail that to this magazine.”

“Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

* * *

 

**X is for…**

**x** , _n._

Sometimes **x** is used when a person doesn’t doesn’t have a name.

Sometimes **x** is used to symbolize hugs.

Sometimes **x** is used to solve math equations.

And sometimes **x** is used to say something that once was, but is not anymore. 

* * *

**Y is for…**

**yearning** , _v._

Harry wrote a letter. He mailed it to Louis with snail mail. It was supposed to be romantic. He hoped that things were okay between them, and explained that he was sorry for leaving. He wrote about how he hoped that Louis wasn’t too angry with him, and that he hoped he could come back to him. What he didn’t mention was that he hoped that Louis knew how much he loved him. He hoped that he knew that he would do anything to keep them alive, to keep that fire burning. Because Harry loved Louis so much, and he hoped that Louis still loved him.

* * *

**Z is for…**

**zeal** , _n._

Louis knew. He always knew. They were soulmates, for God’s sake. That’s why he waited for Harry when he dropped off the letter. Harry had been alarmed to see Louis there, but he was happy. He was home. And when Harry looked into his eyes, he kissed him, right then and there. He didn’t care that people could walk out and see them. All he cared about was the moment, the precious boy in his arms, the lips against his, his curly hair. They were together again, and that was all that mattered.

Things would take a long time before they were okay again. They needed a night together, sleeping (or not sleeping) in each other’s arms before they could talk. They didn’t know what the future held for them, but they were willing to go on that ride.


End file.
